


break the lock if it don't fit

by themegalosaurus



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Consensual Kink, Episode: s15e07 Last Call, First Time, Fisting, M/M, Minor Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester, Sam and Cas's probing kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:07:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25166716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themegalosaurus/pseuds/themegalosaurus
Summary: This is what they do together, Sam and Cas: they probe along the boundaries of what Sam’s body can take.
Relationships: Castiel/Sam Winchester
Comments: 43
Kudos: 137





	break the lock if it don't fit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [De_Nugis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/De_Nugis/gifts).



> So most people may remember this episode as the one where Dean gets to sing with Christian Kane but let me tell you this episode is actually about Sam and Castiel's canon kinky behaviour, honestly I can barely watch it onscreen it makes me so flustered, yIKE. Ahem. The title is from a Florence and a Machine song. I will leave it to you to discover which.
> 
> Thanks to [Casey679](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Casey679) and [road_rhythm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/road_rhythm/pseuds/road_rhythm/works) for the betas, which have definitely improved the tightness and coherence of this fic.
> 
> I am gifting this to de_nugis who is my Sastiel mentor - this isn't the Sassy fic I was intending to write for you, but it is the one that I finished first and that counts for something.

“So,” says Eileen, “we got interrupted earlier.” 

They’re still in the med bay, sitting on the bed. Cas and Dean have both disappeared; Cas to ‘take a rest’ (which is obvious code for ‘get away from Dean’) and Dean to ‘take a shower’ (which Sam suspects might be code for ‘drink’). Eileen’s hand is resting on the blanket just a couple inches from Sam’s and as he looks down, she slides it over to touch the tip of her little finger against his own.

When he meets her eyes she’s smiling, uncertain. It’s fair. She’s been making a lot of the moves here. It’s Sam’s turn to step up.

And she isn’t wrong; they  _ were _ interrupted earlier, Cas appearing just as Sam was at the point of - of what? Of kissing her, he’s pretty sure. That had seemed to be the thing to do.

Here’s the thing: Sam likes Eileen. He does. He likes her a lot. She’s smart and funny and interesting; she’s independent in a way that can feel like a relief, compared to the intensity that’s always marked his relations with Dean. Sam would be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about the possibility of pursuing something with her; maybe more often after her death than before it, when the idea had become just another on the list of might-have-beens.

Now it’s a could-be. That complicates things.

Dean loves to tease Sam for being clueless, for failing to notice when women are paying attention. But it’s not hard to see that Eileen is interested. She’s here, interested, in his home. It’s thrown Sam for a loop. They were drinking for hours last night. He could have moved things up a gear. Instead, he’d blinked at his watch around four a.m., told Eileen he had to crash, and left the library without looking back. Then he’d lain in bed feeling queasy as his heart beat tequila-fast, dropping finally into a dream that he can’t remember but which woke him with a hard-on and an obscure, familiar feeling of shame.

The bed creaks as Eileen sits back. Her cheeks are pink. “Maybe I’ve been reading this wrong.”

“Sorry,” Sam says. “No, sorry, sorry. You’re not wrong.” He makes a circle on his chest,  _ sorry,  _ and reaches out to take her hand. “You’re awesome.”

“But?” says Eileen.

Isn’t that the million-dollar question. “I think I need some time,” Sam says.

“It’s because I was dead?” Eileen’s hands flip sideways, bodies falling flat.

“No,” Sam says. “No, it’s me. I’ve, uh. I’ve had some, some--” He’s never been so conscious of his tendency to stumble over difficult topics. It’s bad enough when he’s trying to kid Dean that he’s okay about something. It’s worse when it’s Eileen and she’s lip-reading, relying on him to articulate clearly and not mangle his words like a nervous teen. “Sex,” he says - a curled index finger, tap to his chin, tap to his temple - “is complicated” - wiggling his index finger as he brings his hand across his eyes, right to left. “For me.” He taps himself on the chest. “Sorry.” And he circles his fist again.

“It’s complicated for everyone. Hey, wait.” Eileen raises an eyebrow. “You learned the sign for sex?”

Sam turns bright red.

“Good to know I’m not totally crazy.” She narrows her eyes at him, then leans forward and kisses his cheek. “Seriously, though, I get it. You don’t have to explain yourself. And you don’t have to apologise. I’ll back off. We can take it slow. Or not get there at all.” Then she stands up, the mattress shifting. “I’m gonna go to bed. You probably should too.” She extends a hand. “You did almost die today.”

Sam finds himself unexpectedly swallowing tears, but he grins through them and flips his hands sideways. “Happens to the best of us,” he says.

He goes to the kitchen and, instinctively, to the coffee machine, but he pauses with his hand on the switch. Eileen is right. He could do with sleeping. So he fills a glass with water instead, running the tap until it’s icy on his fingertips, and sits at the table while he sips at it slowly. He is trying to figure out why he keeps putting this off, pushing Eileen away when she’s everything he ought to want. It feels a lot like laziness; or being kinder to himself, exhaustion. There is so much careful work required in the construction of a relationship. He’s not sure he has the energy to figure out how to fit himself to another person, how to fit that person into the unshapely mess of his life. It’s different than a one-night stand might be. That would be okay. It’s just sex. It’s just bodies. A relationship requires a different kind of nakedness and Sam’s not sure he has the stomach for that anymore.

The thought, once he articulates it to himself, has a feeling of finality. Maybe that’s easier, just taking the option off the table. He can stop kidding himself about his life ever looking any different than it does now. That’s not so bad. It’s easier. Cleaner. Chasing after the things he wants hasn’t historically gone so well.

But for whatever reason, the decision doesn’t bring the lightness Sam might have hoped for. He still feels like he’s carrying something. Maybe it's the obligation to try to explain himself to Eileen. Or, fuck, maybe it’s just the fact that they’re fighting God; that apparently the creator of heaven and earth has a personal interest in watching him suffer. That might do it.

The thought of Chuck and the connection between them makes Sam feel dirty. He takes a diversion on the way back to his room, turning down the long corridor to the bathroom with its echoing tile. Naked, he looks into the mirror; at the dark wound in his shoulder, scabbed over but still sore and unhealed. He looks at his face, his chest. He nearly died today. That should mean more than it does. 

In an effort to ground himself, he cranks the water as hot as he can stand and turns his face upward to face the spray. The drops glance heavily off his closed eyelids, running down over his cheekbones to his neck, his stomach, his cock.

He reaches down to take himself in his hand, runs his thumb over the soft skin. He doesn’t think about sex all that much nowadays; not often, not like Dean still seems to. But even if he’s decided not to pursue anything with Eileen, her presence has shifted the atmosphere. He’s been aware of the possibility. It’s in the air, curling in soft spirals of anticipation, a tension that has prompted him to remember his body, himself. 

There’s no reason not to. He tightens his grip, tugs himself in slow jerks. He waits for his body to relax. But like he said to Eileen, this shit is complicated. There is too much buffeting around his head. The images of Chuck and Amara that he saw when Cas touched his wound. The memory of Rowena, what she left him, what that means. Eileen’s moves towards intimacy and the parallel problem of Dean driving off by himself, Taking Himself Out of the Way. That makes Sam nervous. It makes him worry about Ruby. It makes him worry about Amelia.

None of this is sexy. Sam gives up on getting off, feels guilty about giving up on it, and twists the tap down to cold, dousing himself in a freezing spray for fifteen seconds before he shivers his way out of the shower. His shoulder is hurting. Whatever.

He heads to his room with no other intention than falling into bed and oblivion. But when he opens the door, he finds the television playing quietly and Castiel sitting on the bed, coat and all, blue light flickering over his face. 

Cas’s appearance is not unexpected, exactly; this is a routine they have established over years. It started just after Sam let the Darkness free. Rowena, who was more or less an enemy at the time, put a curse on Cas that shook him badly and prompted him to hide in the bunker for weeks, making excuses not to go outside. He spent most of that time in Sam’s bedroom, streaming endless series on the big TV. Sam didn’t mind. He wasn't sleeping too well back then. It was when Lucifer was inside his head, whispering at him to return to the Cage.

Since then, it happens sometimes. Cas will appear in Sam’s bedroom with the TV playing and Sam will live his life around it, like he did in those first few weeks. He sleeps with the light on half the time, anyway. A television low in the background is nothing; is soothing, even. It feels like he’s a kid again, falling asleep in a motel room. 

Still, there are limits. It’s definitely good that Sam didn’t respond to Eileen’s overtures just now. She was surprisingly game about Cas bursting in on them earlier to announce that he was going to probe Sam’s wound. She might have been less relaxed about his joining them for Netflix and chill.

As Sam enters the room Cas nods his head sideways in greeting, but his eyes don’t leave the screen. Sam crosses to the side of the bed and takes his pyjamas from under his pillow, wriggling awkwardly into his sweatpants under the cover of the towel. After, he drops it to the floor and pulls on his t-shirt; an old one, misshapen, soft from laundry and age. Cas glances over then, drawn by the movement. He doesn’t say anything. Sam lies down beside him. 

Cas is watching a renovation show. Shiny couples argue over shiny houses. The consultants, or experts, or designers, make suggestions; polished, 3D renderings of enormous homes appear on screen. Sam sneaks a sideways peek at Castiel. Is Cas thinking about a home of his own? Is that what he wants?

Sam doesn’t need to ask Cas why he left; it was something to do with Dean, that’s clear. (That explains a good deal about Dean’s recent behaviour, too; about his lack of concern with where Cas had gone and why they couldn’t get hold of him. It’s been transparent enough that Sam already half-knew.) But he does want to ask why Cas didn’t say that he was leaving, and why he didn’t reply to any of Sam’s messages while he was gone. He would like to know, too, why Castiel has come back, and if, or how long, he’s going to stay. But Sam can’t find a way to frame the question that doesn’t make him feel as though he’s acting like Dean, loading people with obscure resentment for taking steps to set up their own lives. It is up to Cas what he does with himself. He doesn’t owe Sam anything. And yet Sam is annoyed.

Still facing towards the television, Cas says, scratchy, “How is your shoulder feeling?”

“It’s fine,” says Sam.

He takes a moment, after, to consider it. Is it fine? Fuck knows. It’s probably worse than it was this morning, before Cas got involved.

The last time Cas fucked up Sam’s shoulder, or at least fucked it worse than it had been before his intervention, Dean was in the wind and Sam was off the rails, carrying out interrogations that make his stomach churn when he looks back on them. A demon he was chasing for news of his brother had taken advantage of Sam’s sloppy exhaustion and torn his arm almost out of its socket. It wasn’t the same shoulder; then it was the right, and now the left. But like this time, Cas had laid hands on it, trying to help him; and like this time, it had gone badly wrong. It was a lot more prosaic, back then. Cas had been depowered. It was his human hands that had stuffed things up, in an inexpert attempt to pop the bone back into place. They’d twisted Sam’s body in a jolting wrench that had him screaming in agony, sending him to the hospital he’d hoped to avoid. Turned out Cas had torn his muscle, seriously torn it, in a way that took months to recover and left Sam skinny, self-hating, weak. Not that he blamed Cas, who didn’t know what he was doing. Sam should have just gone straight to the doctor. His own fuck-up, as always.

Today's episode was less straightforwardly painful. Sure, it hurt; the blazing sensation of Castiel’s grace inside him is breathtaking every time it happens, and this instance was more relentless than most. But there was more. It was more complicated. It’s hard for Sam to find the words. Shocking, yes. Excruciating, certainly. Horrifying. Intimate. Consuming. Hot.

What.

Speaking without really meaning to, Sam says, “Maybe you should take another look.”

Cas’s face clouds over. “I don’t think that would be a good idea,” he says. 

Yeah. Shit. No shit. Hey, Cas, you spent the day panicking that you almost killed me. Want to do it again? 

Cas clears his throat. “We know that you saw Chuck, while you were under. We don’t know whether he saw you. I know that we haven’t gone into the details yet, but even if he just sees enough to learn that you think we might be able to beat him - that we’re planning an attack -”

“I get it,” Sam says. “Sorry. Yeah. You’re right.”

It makes sense. But unfairly, the refusal stokes his resentment, amplifying the bitter feeling deep in his gut.

Cas doesn’t look away. They’ve talked about this, the looking. “You’re disappointed.” He’s frowning at Sam; puzzled, maybe. But Cas always looks that way.

“No,” says Sam. His cheeks glow warm.  _ Disappointed. _ That would be ridiculous. It would be perverse.

Cas squints at him. “What is it that you want?”

“Nothing,” Sam says, automatically. Then he thinks about it. “I don’t know.” He covers his face with his hands. “Sorry, Cas. I’m feeling, I don’t know. Strange. It’s okay. Sorry. You don’t have to do anything.”

The sound from the television has stopped. Peering through his fingers, Sam can see that it is asking,  _ Are you still watching?  _ But Cas isn’t. He has turned towards Sam, is considering him carefully. It makes Sam squirm.

“It’s okay,” he tells Cas again. “Sorry. It’s fine.”

Cas opens his mouth to say something; closes it. Eventually, he says, “I don’t want to use my grace. But we could try something more literal.”

There is a tight feeling in Sam’s chest. “More literal?” 

Cas says it, then. “I could put my hand inside you.” He makes a gesture, lifts his hand and curls the fingers in on themselves.

Sam looks at them: blunt fingernails, delicate bones. 

“Oh,” he says.

“If you want to.”

Everything is a little grey. Sam isn’t getting enough air. He tries for a breath but it’s shallow, useless.

“We don’t have to,” Cas says.

“No,” Sam says, quickly. “I mean, yeah. Yeah, that would be.” Cas smiles and Sam’s stomach lurches, nauseous. He wants Castiel to do this very, very much.

Now Sam thinks about it, he can see that metaphorically speaking, the two of them have a history in this area. That’s the reason he was so ready to accede to Castiel’s plans today. Looking back through the strange sharp filter that overlays those memories of the Sam that wasn’t him, he can see Castiel’s hand plunged wrist-deep, rib-deep, inside his torso. He can feel (has felt, has thought about in that doesn’t-count moment before he comes) the brush of Castiel’s fingers against his soul. He can remember, too, Cas with a long syringe in his hand, a needle in Sam’s neck, draining the remnants of Gadreel. That had hurt, and it had been dangerous, and Sam hadn’t wanted him to stop. 

Cas isn’t misreading, then. But what he’s suggesting is different, even for all the ways it isn’t. 

“Are you sure you’re okay with this, Cas? This isn’t, um - for people, this is. I want it, but. This isn’t the same as what we’ve done.”

“No,” says Cas, “I know. I’m sure. I want to do this.”

Sam waits for Cas to add, “for you”. But he doesn’t. So Castiel does get something out of this, the strange dynamic that has opened up between them - the ritual of Cas pushing into Sam, scraping away at his insides. It’s hard to know what that might be without answering other questions about the way Cas thinks of him. What is Sam to him, now?

Sam’s skin is hot, prickling, sensitive all over. He hasn’t moved from his spot on the bed. Castiel’s shoulder is just touching his own, the cool fabric of his coat against the soft-cotton warmth of Sam’s tee.

“How do you want--” he says. He doesn’t know what this is, how they are supposed to be treating it. Does Cas think this is some kind of medical procedure? What is it that he thinks Sam wants?

Cas leans over and kisses him. His mouth is closed and his lips are dry, rough almost. Sam’s heart thuds heavy in his chest. He opens his mouth, responding, and for a moment, feels the pressure of Castiel’s tongue against his own. 

Cas sits up. “You should take off your clothes,” he says.

The insides of Sam’s ears are buzzing. It’s like the pressure in the room keeps shifting. The walls are shifting, too, distorting around him, large and small. He swings his legs back over the edge of the bed and begins to take off the pyjamas that he just put on. Castiel sits upright, calm and still. He watches Sam.

Sam isn’t wearing underwear and he hesitates as he unties the cord of his pants, tugging them off quickly, not meeting Castiel’s eyes. It isn’t the first time Cas has seen him naked; he’s picked them up, Sam and Dean, when they’ve been in the worst kind of physical condition; has healed them more times than Sam could count. But it is the first time that he will have seen Sam like this, his dick stiffening at the thought of what Cas is going to do.

Strange, ridiculous, to be conscious of one’s naked body when the person looking at it has already touched your soul.

“May I?” says Cas, moving toward the side of the bed. Sam doesn’t know what he’s asking. Didn’t Sam already say yes?

Castiel reaches out and Sam steps towards him, into the gap between his knees. Cas takes Sam’s cock in his hand, curling his fingers around the shaft. Sam can’t feel his feet on the ground, can’t feel anything but Cas’s hand on his skin. It has been a long time, upwards of a year, since anybody touched him there.

Uncurling his fingers, Cas relinquishes Sam’s dick. Sam hesitates. Cas takes off his coat, dropping it on the floor beside the bed. He undoes the buttons on his shirt cuffs. He rolls up the sleeves. His forearms are strong and muscular, scattered with dark hairs. Sam can’t stop looking at them. It’s not that he hasn’t - Sam has mostly had sex with women, sure, but it’s not like he’s been sitting on this urge unsatisfied. 

He can’t keep staring at Castiel’s arms, his hands. Instead, “You’ll need, uh,” he says, and is acutely conscious of his nakedness as he walks across the room; as he crouches to reach his bottom drawer. He puts the tube into Castiel’s hand. 

“This is for lubrication,” Cas says. Sam nods. Cas looks again at Sam’s dick, straining at eye level, dark with blood. He reaches out to cup Sam’s balls.

Has Castiel even had sex before? He has. Sam’s sure he has. With women. Probably. Fuck. He knows - where did Castiel even get the idea for this? Is this an idea that he’s entertained during the nights he's spent here, Sam sleeping in the bed beside him, the television playing and Cas, what, flexing his fingers and imagining how Sam feels inside? It should feel creepy but instead, it leaves Sam flustered in a good way; wrongfooted, alive.

“What made you want--” he says.

Cas considers. “I saw it done, in a movie. And I thought of you.”

So.

“You should get on the bed,” Cas says, turning towards it.

“Yeah,” says Sam. He climbs on, hands and knees, his head up towards the pillows and his ass towards Castiel. He feels exposed. He is exposed. It’s hard not to feel stupid. The worry creeps over him, threatening to douse his excitement. A part of his brain is shouting at him to shut this down.

Castiel puts a hand on Sam’s lower back. His skin is warm and dry. Sam can feel the pressure of each individual finger as they spread wide across the base of his spine.

“Sam,” says Castiel. “Are you okay?”

It is the right thing to say. The tension leaves Sam’s body, snapping out swift as elastic to leave him pliant and soft. 

“I am going to do this carefully,” Cas says, “but it may hurt anyway.”

“That’s okay,” says Sam. He feels light, suddenly. Blissful. “I trust you, Cas.”

It’s true; it’s exactly the point. It is okay - Sam is okay - because he has put himself in Castiel’s hands: because he trusts Cas to push it just far enough, to bring Sam right up to the limit of what he can stand. Castiel will go further than Dean, or Eileen, or anyone else that cares for Sam might go: not careless, but less careful, more willing to edge up to the line. This is what they do together, Sam and Cas: they probe along the boundaries of what Sam’s body can take.

There is a plastic click and then Sam hears Castiel coating his fingers, the sound distinct in the silent room. Sam tenses in pleasant anticipation. Yes. And then Cas’s fingertip is pushing against him, slipping tentatively over his entrance before pressing slowly, deliberately inside. Sam flexes his hands against the bedsheets. He’s trying to focus on relaxing his muscles but he’s giddy already with the good sensation: Castiel, warm and sure, the solidity of his finger inside Sam’s ass; the drag of their skin together as he pulls it back and pushes further in.

“Okay,” says Cas, soon enough, and there’s another finger beside the first; a tight fit and a constant pressure as Castiel moves them, relentless, sure. Sam curls his own fingers into fists, bunching the sheets between them, watching his knuckles turn white. This is already. His heart is hammering, juddering his ribcage.

Castiel sets his other hand on Sam’s hip, tightening his fingertips, a reminder of his presence. “Okay, Sam?” he asks again.

“Yeah,” says Sam. He is surprised to find himself hoarse. “Yeah,” he says, clearer. “I’m good. I’m good. Uh. You can--”

Cas’s probing fingers bump up against a good spot and Sam gasps, dropping the loosely-held thread of his thoughts. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, that’s.” The sweat is standing out wet across his shoulders, down across his back, on his hip where Castiel’s other hand is resting. Even Sam’s hair is damp already, the moisture soaking up from the roots. The ends of it stick to his forehead, flicking into his eyes.

“Okay,” says Castiel, gravelly-low. He pulls his fingers all the way out of Sam for a second, leaving a cold, wet emptiness behind; but before Sam can process the sensation, Cas is back, three fingers now pressed tight against the muscle of Sam’s hole. 

Castiel is stretching his fingers, spreading them as he moves, and Sam’s ass is aching. It’s good. Waves of arousal ripple through him, spreading outward from the point of contact with Castiel’s hand, pulsing with the movement of Cas’s fingers inside him. Sam discovers that he is holding his breath. He lets it out in a shuddering gasp. 

The connection to Castiel grounds him, tethering Sam in his body and rendering him acutely conscious of the fragility of his flesh. What is he, really? Muscles and bones and blood, bound together, contingent, so easy to tear apart. He nearly died today. And here is Castiel, celestial wavelength, eternal being, so much concentrated power. It makes Sam dizzy.

He’s so preoccupied that he’s surprised when Cas says, “Nearly there, Sam.” The hand inside him slows, and again there’s a click and the slick noise of lube on skin. 

Cas’s bunched fingers push at Sam’s ass, hard and solid and Sam thinks that maybe it won’t, he hasn’t, it’s been a long time since anything. He closes his eyes, bears down; and then with a rush and a burn he feels his muscle give way and the sudden bulk of Castiel’s hand inside him, unignorable. A sound, wordless and desperate, judders from his throat.

This is what he wanted. But the assertive mass inside him shocks him, somehow, jolting him into a panicky spiral that he can’t suppress. His thoughts get noisy. He’s slipping into another moment, one that he doesn’t usually let himself think about. It’s the dark spot in the pattern that he’s established with Cas; a nasty corruption of something fragile and carefully held. It happened here, in the Bunker: Sam offered himself, his soul; and something that looked like Cas put a hand in to take it. He knew - was told - in the moment before the action, but Sam doesn’t think Lucifer could have hidden himself if he tried. Sam knows the freezing chill of his touch too well. He knows, knew, recognised the burn of those fingers, ice-cold, tearing at Sam’s most vulnerable, private self. He knew the sneer, too, which twisted Cas’s familiar features into something uncanny and revolting. And Sam can’t see, now, he can’t see Castiel’s face and so he doesn’t know, can’t be sure. How could he have been so stupid? He has to - he has to - he can’t -

“Sam?” says Cas, far away; and it is Cas, it is, but Sam’s overtaken, lost in his fear and he isn’t sure he can find his way back. “Sam,” says Castiel again, and his free hand pats over Sam’s belly, his side.

Gasping for air, Sam drops his head, squinting at Cas through the tangle of their bodies. “I need,” he says. “Cas. I. Can you talk to me? I just. Can you keep talking to me? So that I know it’s you.”

“Oh,” says Cas. They haven’t talked about that, not ever.

Cas’s hand shifts inside Sam, shooting stars across his vision, and then there’s a pressure and the sensation of loss. Fuck. Sam’s fucked this up, like he fucks up everything.

“Maybe if you could see me,” Castiel says, and he nudges at Sam’s hip. Sam drops to the bed. He lets Cas turn him over, lets his knees fall wide. Oh. He can see Castiel, like this, caught in the frame of his open legs. And it is Castiel, of course, because Sam would know if it weren’t; did know, instantly, back when the bad thing happened. It’s Cas, and his face is wearing its familiar frowning expression; and it’s okay, Sam’s back, and he hasn’t ruined this after all. 

Cas is contemplating him, concerned. “Is this okay?”

“Yes,” Sam says, “Yes, I’m better now, it’s okay, it’s okay, Cas, please.” Cas is lubing up his hand again where Sam can watch it; he sees the glistening shine on Cas’s skin, the liquid running over his wrist. It’s easier this time, a push and a pressure and a quick sharp pain that makes him cry out; and then Castiel is inside, the awkward, irregular bulk stuffed up where Sam can’t ignore it, and it’s better this way, not just because it catches a better angle inside him but mostly because Sam can watch Castiel as he works. He can see the focus furrowing Cas’s forehead and the darkness of his eyes as the pupils expand. 

For all of Castiel’s ferocious concentration, there is a tenderness in his face that makes Sam ache, a softness that catches at the back of Sam’s throat. Cas looks up, and he must see something on Sam’s face, too, because he looks away - Cas never looks away - and the skin on his cheeks turns pink. This is more than Sam was expecting. When he woke up this morning, he would never have thought of this. Cas? 

There’s a sound in the corridor and an image flashes into Sam’s mind: the door swinging open and Eileen’s face in the opening, shocked. Dean’s face.

“Stop  _ thinking, _ ” says Cas, and he twists his hand, flexing his fingers inside. With the other, he reaches out to take hold of Sam’s cock. The twin sensations are overwhelming, tugging Sam back into a space where the only thing he can hold in his mind is the feeling overtaking his body. He lets himself fall into it, the sweet freedom he’s been missing, the feeling he was chasing when he asked Cas to touch his shoulder again. He puts himself into Castiel’s hands, his strong hands, moving inside and over Sam, holding him, moulding him.

“Okay?” Cas asks.

“Yes,” Sam says, “Yes, yeah, Cas, please.” 

Cas makes eye contact, a serious unbroken gaze, and he moves the hand that’s inside Sam, an upward pressure, so deep inside Sam’s softest, most vulnerable parts; so deep, and so easy to go badly wrong; and the thought of it, the knowledge that Cas could hurt him, and isn’t, and the hard proof of that knowledge in the feeling of Cas’s fist in his gut, is finally enough. Sam gasps - moans - and unspools, coming into Castiel’s palm.

When he can think again, he looks down between his own bent knees at Cas, who is panting, flushed. 

“I’m going to move,” Cas says, and carefully, so carefully, slides his hand free with a lingering tug that sends a last wave of pleasure up Sam’s spine.

“My T-shirt,” Sam says, and Cas reaches down for it, wipes his hands.

“Thank you,” he says. He is looking at Sam with something wary in his eyes; like he’s expecting rejection, perhaps. 

“Cas,” says Sam, and he half-sits up, pulling at Castiel’s shoulder, his bicep, until Cas moves, climbing over Sam’s body, up the bed towards him. He’s still clothed, Castiel, in his shirt and his dress pants; so Sam reaches down and unbuckles the belt (a flash to the memory of Cas’s belt between his teeth, the leather bitter against his tongue) (and he wants that badly, suddenly, wants Cas to try to make him scream) - unbuckles the belt and unzips Cas’s pants, gets a hand on his dick and starts to jerk him, irregular, clumsy; but it’s enough. Cas must have been trembling on a knife-edge all this time. It takes only a few strokes before he’s coming, hot and sticky, over Sam’s stomach and chest.

Sam hooks an arm under Castiel’s armpit and tugs. Cas collapses onto him, wet fabric against wet skin. Sam’s face is jammed against Castiel’s neck, his nose full of the sweaty scent of him, the angel-ozone underneath. Sam thinks about Castiel underneath him in that strange Stepford town, shouting at Sam to remember himself, to come back; thinks of Cas earlier that day, so pleasant and concerned as Sam looked at him unrecognisingly. He thinks about what he, Sam, had thought about Castiel, in that moment when he didn’t know him: that he had wanted to touch him, to get him drunk on cocktails and persuade him to take off his coat.

“Hey,” says Sam, and Cas turns his face, and Sam leans in and kisses him. Then he reaches up with both hands to take Castiel’s jaw between his palms; and then they’re on their sides, making out like teenagers. Sam doesn’t want to stop. Cas’s hair is a mess, dishevelled, sticking up at all angles. A button on his shirt has come off under Sam’s fingers, exposing a glimpse of skin. Sam puts his mouth against it and Castiel arches backward, pressing his chest toward Sam, clutching at Sam’s shoulder, his hair. 

Sam feels like something has smashed open inside of him; a vessel like the jars in the Bunker’s vaults and archives, releasing something that he didn’t even know was there. He woke up this morning, grappling with the question of what to do about Eileen. And now this. It’s so messy. It’s not what he should want at all. But here he is, wanting it.

“Stop thinking,” says Cas from underneath him. 

Sam locks his elbows, holding himself over Castiel. He looks down at Cas’s head on the pillow, dark hair and white cotton. 

“You got it,” he says.

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't posted a smut fic for ages and had forgotten how exposing a process it can be (me and Sam both, am I right?!). All comments gratefully received!


End file.
